turn the pain into power
by thejollypirate
Summary: Killian Jones has been working his entire life as a cybersecurity engineer. He's greatly admired by his co-workers and his boss, but he chooses not to socialize much. What they don't know is that he spends his night as a vigilante hacker who also has superhuman abilities. He encounters Emma Swan, a lass with a heart of steel and ferocity of a lion, who finds a flaw to his code.
1. Chapter 1

**_across the sea has not been forgotten! that is being finished up soon as it's also nearing the last few chapters. this series will not follow the typical flow of a multi-chapter fic; it will flow in separate one-shots that follow the plotline but will not follow a specific timeline (i.e. from this morning to tonight. it will go something like: today to next week) so long as the events are chronologically ordered and develop the characters and plot. hope this is understandable! ALSO I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS AS MUCH AS I DO._**

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 **i** **. a fire in her soul; in which Killian Jones meet her.**

He wishes he could tell the story differently of how they first meet, but she literally punches him across the face, a rather firm and strong jab to his cheek, leaving him with a bleeding split lip and bruising skin.

Of all things, he doesn't expect there to be another person like him out there, the one that were used as testing subjects to enhanced senses and abilities; strength, speed, sense, smell, hearing, even - oddly enough - taste. Long story short, not enough time to tell really, is they were child subjects.

He'd be lying if he said she's not fierce and courageous - the abrupt punch to his face says otherwise, also, it's a really bad assumption and quick judgement of who he is.

Albeit he'd love to talk with her, he swipes his hand across his bleeding lip and disappears before he can do something rash (well that's his reasoning, though it's actually because his target just stood up and Killian dropped his knife earlier thanks to _her_ ).

It's not the most pathetic move he's made, though a little shameful he's ducked for cover and is trying to catch his breath and stop the quiet thudding in his brain thanks to the punch. His rival, or whatever she really is, is a vigilant one, slipping between the crowd in the party and disappearing off into god knows where. Meanwhile, he's gotten blood on his nice suit (damn it, he paid a lot for this thing), and he's a wanted man who's been seen by his target.

Killian pulls at the cuffs of his shirt, cleaning himself up as well as he can before slithering his way back into the crowd without seeming to conspicuous, though he's sure that it's a mocking attempt. For one, he's not going to leave this place without killing _him_ , but he's aware he also won't get out of his unscathed without a few bruises and cuts; that job has already been handed over to Ms. Blonde Death Punch.

It's easy to drift through the crowd of fancily dressed men and women, and some may question his taste in women given he doesn't pay a single drop of attention to any of their rather revealing choices of clothing, but he has a more important job, and that's to eliminate one of the biggest political figures up on the American embassy who's been ripping off tax rates and pulling out thousands to millions of dollars for his own personal use.

No surprise he owns a literal gigantic mansion and throws grand celebrations for no particular, or reasonable reason.

Idly mingling around gets him nowhere, but mingling around toward him is getting him somewhere.

"If I were you I wouldn't aim for now because he's calling in his security guards to search for you."

Ducking his head, his eyes catch the blonde hair he saw earlier, hovering near his shoulder. She's a questionable figure, but she seems to know his purpose of attendance at this party, all while she has her warm breath hitting the back of his neck, warning him about the circumstances he's found himself under.

Whether he should wonder if she has the same interest as him or not, is an entirely different question - which he hopes he can find the answer to soon. Asking isn't in his favour, he doesn't have the interest to communicate with her yet, despite the beauty he's sure of after a few glances and lingering stares. He shoves that thought out of his mind (or to the back of his memory), before he straightens his posture a little bit, clenches his jaw and lets his eyes scan the vicinity of any security guards after his head.

By the time he turns around, she's gone, blended in with the crowd again.

He debates between retreating for the night or eliminating his mark, but one outweighs the other with a simple reason: he is not leaving without knowing who _she_ is.

Eliminating his mark it is.

There is nothing better than acting so convincingly that people are threateningly sweet, but there is perhaps one thing that exceeds that feeling, and it's the thrill of removing a corrupted man from the society he lives in, thus squashing another bug, creating one of the country's most largest political revelations.

He thinks he's smart, actually, believing he's created intuitive passwords to every site he's accessed. Really, who thinks '123456seven' is a password that will protect an account? Surely he could have made a more valiant attempt at trying to lock out any hackers, but that doesn't work against Killian. The only reason he's this capable at tracking his targets, high and low, is because of his heavy understanding in technology.

He's sort of a vigilante hacker.

Okay, he _is_ a vigilante hacker...by night.

Regular, functioning, working human being by day.

And the best part about it all is that he works for no one but himself.

That's the catch here; hackers, they inherently trust no one, including each other. Killian Jones works best alone, at least during his night duties. In the morning, he's a regular employee of a company that works on keeping other major corporations data safe, keeping their networks clean of any infiltrating from enemy hacker groups seeking sensitive data, or if they desire to shut down and infect networks to the point of not being able to stand back up.

His boss is kind and a nice guy, as is the rest of the people he works closely with, but because of his job at night, it forces him out of a lot of social situations. Though, this doesn't go to say that he doesn't go out, because he does - spends a lot of his time out by the closest pier or a bar his childhood friend owns, though. Killian can't always cancel on plans he has with his co-workers, so he always tends to balance his different responsibilities in ways that benefit him the best.

Anyways, he's wasted too much time standing around tonight.

Subconsciously, his eyes are looking for more than just his mark, because every sight of blonde hair and a black dress, which is quite typical and seen everywhere, snatches his attention.

He'd love to use his super ability of hearing to tune in on any voices that are speaking about him, but there's too much chatter surrounding him in the ballroom, there's no way he'll be able to do that. After precisely five minutes (what a nice watch he's wearing), he begins his plan to strike.

Really, exploiting all of this man's personal details could have been enough to ruin his entire career, his life, but seeing that on the news isn't enough. Someone like him...well, he deserves punishment, and in this case, it's death.

Unfortunately, of all things to happen, he ends the night with the worst possible outcome. Well, he's exaggerating it, really, since it's not the actual _worst_ outcome. Although his objective has been completed by another, and he has a strong sense of it being Ms. Blonde Death Punch, he's disappointed that he'd not been able to kill the man himself. He must applaud for her though, the clean job she's done with his execution, especially when it comes to _their_ powers.

Staring down at a slumped body across his couch, he can't help but bark out some laughter, speeding out of the room and out the mansion before anyone can deem him as the murderer (his security guards are sloppy at the job, jeez). This time, he can say he isn't the one who killed, but rather the woman who'd he'd been hardly acquainted with. At least, that's the bold, but fairly accurate assumption he's making tonight.

Oh, how he's going to have fun to unveil her identity and explore online.

All he needs is a name, _her_ name, and he'll be able to uncover everything about her in mere minutes. That's what he's good at in the first place, being a secret "hero," all while being the one who can type away at a keyboard and stare at a computer screen as an incognito vigilante hacker who knows his ways around every sort of possible network possible.

Social media is easy to break apart nowadays, it's an easy source to behind the scenes. Same with e-mails, text messages, and phone calls. Killian Jones has access to all of these.

"Better luck next time."

The voice doesn't catch him off guard, but when he turns his head to look at her, she's got a smirk plastered across her face, indication of her victory, her own pride. Killian escapes with a scoff, shaking his head and shrugging.

"Should someone find him there, I wasn't the actual one who committed the crime."

"Eh, right, but those security guards suspected _you_." And she's got a hell of a point. "Anyways, can't stay for long, not before someone discovers him dead."

"Oh? No introductions, darling?"

"You really expect me to give you my name?" The mysterious woman laughs, approaching him, only to brush past his shoulders and pat him there. "I told you, better luck next time."

She's got fire in her soul, this one, and he is more than intrigued. One could possibly think he's completely besotted with her unknown talent, but whether she punched him earlier for mistaking his identity or because she wanted to get this kill, he'll never know until she tells him. And from the way she acts, mighty and strong with one lovely gumption, he'll not be getting many answers from her.

"Also, sorry for punching you in the face, that was rude of me."

"Ah, a lie right there - I daresay you enjoyed punching me in the face, love," he says, turning around to her back at him.

She shoots a look at him quickly over her shoulder, something that makes his own lips unwillingly curl into a smile.

"Sorry for lying, then."

Aye, she's got a fire in her soul, burning brightly but only letting the smart see her burn bright.


	2. Chapter 2

**ii. a lion in her heart; where he finds not a single trace of her.**

"Really?" he grumbles, quickly typing away on his keyboard, the sound of the keys echoing in his ears. He needs to invest in one of those quiet keyboards, the ones where the keys to make the obnoxious sounds every time they get hit.

There's only a lamp lighting up his apartment at the moment, himself being too occupied at searching the internet on any traces behind the woman who he'd encountered a few nights before. He's been sitting low since, knowing there's nothing else for him to do for now, not until he uncovers another huge secret, or if there's rumours behind any new drama sprouting around the city.

New York is a busy, busy place, but there's so many victims, but also so many suspects. In some ways, it makes Killian's job easier, but in others, it also makes it a lot harder.

He isn't satisfied with the little progress he's made, but there's been news of a new vigilante out on the streets, recovered from the last few weeks until his current time of even researching this stuff.

With a frustrated sigh, he spins around in his chair, feet bringing him toward his kitchen, grabbing his empty mug and filling it with some water to drink. He's frustrated at what little he can gain, that he's hit dead-end after dead-end on researching who she could possibly be. For all he knows, she hasn't even been nicknamed yet, assuming that the news is referencing her in the first place.

If he had a name, even the surname, he'd be at least making more progress than he is now.

He leans back against the counter, against the sink, crossing his ankles and staring at the tile floor while taking sips from his water. He needs some time to wear his frustration off.

Sure, he's got the entire 'super strength' and 'super speed' stuff down, but damn, does he still need to work out once in awhile to keep himself in ship-shape. He'll go out for runs sometimes, and then maybe hit up the gym, but Killian, he sometimes forgets when it comes to sitting in front of his computer, clicking and typing all day, doing both of his jobs day and night.

At least he doesn't have a headache at how much he's pushing himself. Why is he even looking her up anyways? Curiosity, maybe? He doesn't know himself, but he could just be enraptured by that fire in her soul, that lion in her heart like the courage she'd exhibited that night.

And, does she know who _he_ is? Or has he simply been sloppy on keeping his façade up as a simply attendant of the party?

Of course, give him hundreds of beautiful women with cleavage, yet he'll choose the one with the wits and the capability of a bloody professional assassin (not that she isn't as gorgeous).

But...she is just like him. She has the strength only he's known himself for having, she has the speed only he's know himself for having - just who is this woman?

Killian shakes his head of the thoughts, gulping the rest of his water down and setting his mug back on the counter before heading back to plop down into his seat, pushing himself closer to his desk. All his life, he's never known another superhuman like him, but that code has now been cracked with Ms. Blonde Death Punch.

(He needs a new name for her, that's just a whole lot to say.)

After fifteen more minutes of research, the clock hits midnight and he leans back in his chair, heaving a heavy sigh before he shuts down his computer and the rest of his devices (can't be too reckless). He doesn't want people to sneak into his computer, though there's not actually a lot on it compared to most. Just a couple of his own personally coded programs, and it's not like they can access any of his .dat files. His cyber engineering knowledge really pays off on this aspect of his work, though. He's lucky for that.

Stifling a yawn, he shuts the lamp off, makes sure his door is locked and the windows are closed with the curtains drawn, before he heads to his bedroom to change and sleep. When his head hits the pillow, he huffs a breath before his mind begins to shut down on its constantly thinking process. He thinks too much, and he's actually quite articulate of his thoughts, so long as he has someone to speak to.

(Choice of being more antisocial makes that not very possible.)

His nights aren't plagued with nightmares as much as memories of his childhood. Though, he could consider his childhood a nightmare, at least, ever since Liam had died, leaving him to be a young little boy wandering the streets in the hope of surviving well off of whatever he could.

He wants to sleep, of course he does, but it seems like slumber does not want to transcend his night.

It takes him over an hour into the early morning hours before he begins to doze off, only to be woken by banging at his front door.

Killian groans, deciding to not go and open it, because lord knows who in their right mind would knock on his door at 1:30AM in the morning to grab his attention. Eventually the knocking stops and he sighs in relief, turning in his bed.

The sun rises too early for this taste, as he flips off his covers and rubs his face. He trudges down his hallway toward the open kitchen/living room/office, to go make coffee so he can shower before work and get his breakfast afterwards.

So, literally, the last thing he expects is someone lounging about on his couch in front of his TV.

"The bloody hell?" he shouts.

"Ow, ow, jeez calm down."

"Why are _you_ here?"

"Hey, you're the one who didn't open up last night when I was knocking on your door. I was trying to be nice." She sits up and does a horrible job at covering her wince. "You left me no choice but to pick your lock - real easy job."

Ms. Blonde Death Punch (still really needs a new nickname for her until she tells him her name), is in his apartment.

Running a hand through his hair, he groans. "No normal human being comes banging at one's door in the middle of the night, lass," he complains, rubbing the back of his neck. "You're injured."

"Eh." She shrugs.

"Convincing."

"Wasn't trying to be," she retorts, her hands clutching at the base of the couch seats. "Sorry for breaking in, but I needed a place to stay for the night. I was hoping I could have left before you waking up," she explains, pursing her lips and frowning. "I'll get going."

"No," he says, "stay. At least let me see your injuries."

She raises a questioning brow at him. "Playing the doctor role out of sympathy?"

Killian scoffs, quickly going to his washroom to pull out his personal first-aid kit; it comes in handy on the nights when he needs to treat his own wounds. "Playing the doctor role, aye. Out of sympathy? Not so much." He waits for her to shed the leather jacket. "Where are you hurt, love?"

"Ribs area."

"Ouch," he hisses dramatically. "Come on, remove the shirt, too."

"Really?"

"I can't see through bloody shirts." She gives him a _look_ , and he returns the _are you kidding me?_ look back to her. "I'll save your dignity, I swear," he adds on, tilting his head to the side a little bit.

Gently, he tends to her wounds, his breath hitching just a little bit every time she groans or hisses at the pain. She's definitely got a broken rib and quite a few cuts from some sort of knife or sharp object. God knows what infections she could have contracted had she not got them tended to. He's helping the one person he's been trying to find information on, the one where he can't find a single trace, yet she finds him in mere - what - days? Minutes?

Just like the lack of reasoning for why he's been trying to find something on her, he has a lack of reasoning to be acting as her doctor. Perhaps it's just because the right thing to do, the gentlemanly thing to do - good form and all that. Killian does follow that honour of his, despite having to lie quite a bit to some of his friends and co-workers.

"How'd you find me?" he eventually asks, patching up the last of her cuts.

She shrugs. "You seemed valuable, I followed you that first night we met," she says, her words coming out a bit more breathily than usual. "Creepy, I know, but you seemed somewhat reliable."

"Somewhat?"

"Well, I hardly know who you are, so there's that."

"Touché." He pulls back, smiling just a little. "Done. Should I recommend you not involve yourself in any more dangerous situations for at least another week? A broken rib won't heal like that."

"I'll try," she huffs, grabbing her shirt and slipping it back on over her head. "Thank you, by the way."

"Don't make it some sort of habit to break into my apartment and expect me to treat you to every time you're hurt," he tells her, closing up the first-aid kit and turning to face her.

"Right...I don't make promises."

"Why's that?"

She opens her mouth, but closes it promptly, grabbing her jacket and sliding her arms through the sleeves. "I just don't. That's all you need to know," she murmurs, and within a minute, she's out the door and he's standing there obliviously confused at her lack of explanation.

He could spend the remainder of his day in an attempt at an analysis of what just happened, but...well, there's not much he can really do.

And he forgot to ask for her name.

And he's also running late for work.

Bloody brilliant.


End file.
